Endgame
“Pohatu...” The Toa stirred from his slumber at the utterance of the word. Many hours had passed since another voice had reached his audio receptors. He it no heed and continued drifting through the wide expanse of soft and mellow images that flickered before his eyes. For thousands of years he had slept, traversing imagined grassy, mountains and throwing pebbles into metaphysical streams. In this glorious moment he desired for nothing more than to be left in the ecstasy of this well-deserved slumber. “Pohatu.” Again the word was muttered. This time more urgently. Only now did the Toa recognize it as his own name. Stirring, the Master of Stone knotted his brow and turned his attention back to the physical world, shrugging off the heavy weight that slumber bore upon him. Limply aware that he had been falling in and out of consciousness for several minutes now, Pohatu struggled to wake himself. His eyes squinted open, vaguely registering a golden shape shimmering before him. The figure moved on its own, rocking back and forth. It took him a long moment to realize he was being prodded. “Toa Pohatu.” Groaning aloud, the Master of Stone tried to shake the blurriness from his vision, finally remembering that he possessed a neck and could in fact tilt his head upwards. Blinking intermittently, he managed to focus on the shifting golden shape and passively watched as it morphed into the recognizable outline of Jaller. Around him the cell blurred into view and Pohatu began to remember how he had gotten himself in this position: a prisoner of war. As soon as he had been dragged back to the confines of the cell his Golden Mask had been snatched and he had folded to the ground. Now he could feel its warm metal pressed against his face once more. Only now noticing the thin length of chain wrapped around his wrists and bolted shut across his lap, the Toa felt his features darken. With his mask reattached and his full strength finally returning it took only a sharp tug to snap the iron clasp and break free. The shackles were meant for a much weaker breed of warrior but still they had caged him. Humbly, the Master of Stone nodded a wordless thanks to his savior. Outside the open door there appeared to be some kind of commotion. Pohatu could hear the sound of Elemental Energy being discharged. Tension was practically electrifying the air as a Skull Warrior clattered to the ground outside the doorway, its Skull Mask shattered and sinister singe marks across its abdomen. "You know, I've spent my whole life terrified of the day when the Protector of Fire grew too old to defend my village," mused the wounded villager reluctantly. "I trained with spears and lances knowing I would one day have need of them to fend for my life. I always seemed to find myself being a little too practical for my own good. I never held much faith in the Protectors and I held even less hope for you Toa." Metal clashed against metal on the battlefield outside. Jaller paused as the structure shook from a stray elemental burst. When he looked back at Pohatu there was a confident twinkle in his eye. "But my people are a peculiar sort. They aren't fighters like you or I. They're not ambitious or dishonest, self-interested or manipulative. Instead they fancy themselves builders and dreamers. They live wholesome lives tending to livestock and living off the land, desiring nothing more than a decent harvest and a few more days without rain. Even though they can be backwards and stubborn to the point of doing themselves disservice, they are a noble breed. They have principles and virtues, ethics and beliefs. But above all, they have unity." For a long moment, the two prisoners locked eyes. Slowly, the villagers' words began to sink in. Pohatu nodded solemnly to himself. He had made his decision. "I do believe the legends of my people tell of six mighty Toa," continued Jaller. "Not your people," grunted the Master of Stone. "Our people."